After Erik
by maybemoriartied
Summary: Paris, 1880, nine years after the events of 'The Phantom of the Opera'. Nine years in which all thoughts of Erik, the angel who'd once haunted Christine day and night had been cast aside, discarded like a broken doll. Nine years in which she had grown up into a women of high reputation, with a handsome young husband and prospects of a child. But so much can change in nine years.
1. Chapter One

Paris is host to a number of fine hospitals, all which produce many a fine baby from many a fine mother. It is a particular mother however, by the name of Christine De Chagny, that our story is this time focused on.

Mme De Chagney had arrived at the Hopital de la Seine a mere two day previously, in labour with her first, long awaited child, and escorted by Raoul, her rather newly wed husband, the Viscomte de Chagney. They were a handsome couple who were admired by many, every woman wanting to be as beautiful as the young, talented soprano and every man aspiring to be rich like the dashing Viscomte. There was no doubt around Paris that this child would most certainly be a baby to be proud of.

"I'm so proud of you Little Lotte. You were wonderful." Raoul said softly to his wife as he held her carefully against his sinewy body. After giving birth, with the minimum stress, their radiant new baby girl had been taken to be cleaned and checked over, leaving herself and Raoul some time alone at last.

"She was stunning, wasn't she?" Christine sighed happily, as she rested her head on her husbands shoulder. It is, dear reader, a great accomplishment to have a child - every mother feels it, and Christine was no exception.

"She was, and she shall be a fine young lady with many a suitor. But I wouldn't expect anything less from a child with your blood running through their veins," Raoul told her as he kissed her damp forehead sweetly.

A tender smile spread across the new mother's clammy face, illuminating her, and ridding her briefly of the taut lines of childbirth.

"But with you as her father Raoul, she'll never want for anything, and that is a far greater thing than suitors. Besides, for a long time the only love she'll want is her mother's and father's. And when her mother is away singing, it is you who will comfort her in illness and entertain her in jest, so, my Viscomte, you have by far the better gift to her."

Raoul merely let a hint of a smirk play at the corner of his lips. "Perhaps," he answered, stopping any possible argument before it began. "But that is not the real problem Mme De Chagney," he continued, watching his young wife's eyes brighten at her new name, " Is what to call the tiny thing."

Christine yawned sleepily, the strains of childbirth rushing back to her as she rubbed her eyes in fatigue.

"Aria. I like Aria," Christine mumbled, already drifting out of consciousness.

Raoul smiled at her choice.

The Viscomte De Chagny was a truly blessed man.


	2. Chapter Two

A couple of hours later, in which Raoul had left Christine to herself, the new mother lounged in a daze, her eyelids occasionally fluttering shut. Her thoughts waltzing around her head, to some strange, unknown music, she lifted one elegant arm, and propped up her spinning head.

Aria. A beautiful, wonderful name, one of the operatic music she knew and loved so well. And now of Aria, her Aria, her little baby girl. So blissful had been Raoul's expression as he left her, that she wondered why she, the mother of the tiny thing was not quite so content as the father.

Now of course she didn't dislike the fact that she was now a mother. She was thrilled and proud, for she felt as though she was now a real woman, a woman with a big responsibility and an important purpose, unlike the insignificant girl she was before. But she had that feeling one gets when you know you've done something terrible and you know you will surely pay the price. All of a sudden, she was glad Raoul had gone home for the night, for she didn't think she would be able so play the trouble free, contented mother in front of him as she had done for what seemed an age - when really, it had only been a mere day.

She'd tried in vain to eat, she'd tried to sleep off her qualms and put her mind at peace - yet every time she did so, she heard music, that beautiful, dark swirling music of nights long ago, oh so very long ago. And everytime she heard it, in the depths of her mind, she thought of _him_.

He who had taught her to sing, he who had mentored her, watched over her - but not only that, he had killed for her, killed for her and she could never forget it, not in this lifetime or any. Though sometimes, a few, wistful sometimes, she had thought back to her days with him with longing and without regret, thought of how different things might have been should she have

walked a different path.

But she should not think of that now. She could not, she must not. She was Raoul's, and Raoul was hers, and tiny Aria was theirs and theirs alone. No angel, however alluring. No Erik, with his pitiful face and his proclaims of undying love. Not his sweet, sad self, or even the raging mad one.

Her inner conflict was interrupted by the quiet, yet sharp cry of little Aria. Christine mentally shook herself as she stood up, reminding herself scoldingly that her little one needed her. Smoothing down her nightgown , she crossed the small hospital room to the wicker crib in which the cherubic innocent lay. As she leant over the side of the cradle, she stiffled a scream.

Her baby, her precious, sweet, innocent little Aria peered up at her.

Her eyes were a shining, glowing, unmistakable colour of gold.


	3. Nine Months Previously

_With her new spouse, Raoul, gone away on business, Christine was left alone in their spacious Parisian villa. She had little to do, for their was nothing to entertain herself with - the days were long past when every spare second would be filled practising with her mysterious music tutor, Erik. Now, when she wasn't at the Opera House, she would sit languidly on her chair in front of the mirror - admiring her new jewels, or wistfully dreaming of her Viscomte. It was a lazy life, and at times it became boring. Christine would often compare it to the days of excitement, of the feverish dedication to her art, to her music, then hastily reprimand herself. _

_Erik had killed people, innocent lives forever gone._

_She shouldn't miss a man like that. _

_And yet she did._

_Today though, she was merely extremely tired - Raoul had left in the early hours of morning; Christine naturally awaking to see him off. Now, it was only around nine o'clock, but she didn't want to be so listless any longer. At least sleeping gave her something to do. Slipping on to her silken nightgown, she blew the lantern on her bedside which was keeping her up, and settled down underneath her blankets which seemed just then as comfy as snoozing in the high above clouds._

_And then she heard someone knock on her door. _

_A quick tap, but surprisingly gentle, it startled her back to consciousness - she sat up at once, her back rigid with sudden fear. "Who-" she stopped short. She sounded frail, fragile, and with Raoul away on business there was no one to protect her against thieves, murder and she didn't know what else. "Who is it?" she said again, her voice firmer now. _

_The only answer which came her way was the creak of the door opening._

_"Who's there?" she said again, and she felt sure she could hear a small giggle come from the threshold. Despairing, she took one deep, shuddering breath and whispered (though she did not know why) , "Erik?"_

_A silence._

_"Erik... It isn't you? What are you doing... How did you get here? I... I believed you to be dead..."_

_No response._

_"Oh, who is it?" Christine said, a tremor threatening to shake her voice and reveal how truly terrified she was. It wasn't Erik, of course it wasn't - it was probably some dark creature of the Parisian underworld, come to finish her off with a flick of a shiny sharp blade. And then - a hand on her shoulder. She stiffened, as a man's hand ran through her hair, and he spoke to her, his voice soft and comforting._

_Familiar._

_"It's Raoul... My little Lotte, don't be afraid." _

_"Ra-Raoul? Love? But you were gone away on business."_

_"I came back early for I wasn't needed. It's okay Lotte, it's okay..."_

_"Your voice sounds different..."_

_"Because I have a cold," he replied smoothly, before leaning forwards to plant a brief but tender kiss atop her head. "I love you Christine."_

_And what else they did that night Mme. De Chagney would never be quite brazen enough to admit. _


End file.
